In Andalusia 
tucked below 
a mountain village
there is a bridge
a child has drawn.
It’s span?
No more than twenty steps
across an icy torrent.
A simple crossing
for sheep and men 
built with love
from impossible trees.

Maersk Maersk Maersk
Safmarine Maersk
Evergreen Safmarine 
Maersk Hamburg Evergreen
Safmarine Safmarine
Maersk Maersk Evergreen
Maersk Hamburg Safmarine
Evergreen Evergreen
Maersk Maersk 

They detoured us 
through side streets
around the orange Mobylette
the jackknifed truck
Les prix bas! CARREFOUR
the driver weeping at the kerb
and somewhere 
in this little country town
a cooling stove
a swinging door.

I’ve been catching up on Ian Hamilton’s poetry. Lesser know as a poet, more as a sportswriter and journalist. Few poems for a lifetime of writing, but they’re diamonds. No padding, no rambling. You might give him a google and see what you think?

Stay well, be safe, do good stuff.

After the long hot summer of rioting
with cities in flames
Bristol   
Liverpool  
Birmingham
Nottingham 
and the rest 
we thought we’d have one too.
On St. Giles Estate 
four boys scaled a roof 
to let off fireworks no one saw.
It was mid-afternoon.
In the City Centre
around 4 pm
there was evidence of language
almost-chants of ‘fuck the pigs’
and on street drinking.
An unwisely parked police van 
with a mouthy future Councillor
who’d leapt inside mid-ruck
fearing for his safety 
after shouting
‘go home ruffians!’
was rocked about a bit and almost rolled.
There was minor scuffling 
and major jostling.
Arrests were made 
mostly for appearances sake.
A few suspended sentences 
a binding-over. Enough to satisfy
and energise the local press
(always sticklers for the truth)
who splashed in 25 point bold 
words and phrases
they’d been itching to for years
‘anarchy’
‘flashpoint’
‘disaffected youth’










 

The playground’s gone 
where once I was a bird and flew 
from long chained swings
to land in a Sahara of sand.
No paint-chipped monkey bars. 
No jungle 
where my evening gibbon-call
could light a hundred windows.


It’s cleaner now
the flats are brilliant white
and where the playground was
is an oasis treed with shade.
If you look closely you can see 
just where the light breaks in
families sprawled on bright blankets.
A father swings his child to catch the sun.
Everyone is smiling.

At my third secondary school
after two really shitty ones
the first just dull
the second frankly terrifying     
feeling uncertain and different
I began tapping the walls
just between lessons
in complex odds and evens
a system of syncopated rhythm
with its own internal logic
like snail shells or Pi.
Or Gene Krupa 
who no one else had heard of.
I knew that somehow 
this magic kept the world in place:
the sky did not fall
the school did not burn down
no ex-pupil gunmen stalked the halls.
So when they asked me to stop
using their kind-but-firm voices
because they said 
it was freaking out the other kids
I was a bit surprised.
Did they not understand how easily
the world can turn and
bite when you’re not looking
how for no good reason at all
none that made sense to me anyway
people might actually die?

Today we harvested
horseshoes 
big as side-plates
fists of limestone 
shards of tile 
blue and white crockery
the bone handle 
of an old eating knife 
rusted bedsprings
a tortoiseshell barrette
and a tin of lead soldiers
dead Hussars 
headless Dragoons
riding broken horses
You couldn’t plough them back
they wouldn’t fit 
not even in your dreams
















 

Clouds plough the sky
fast as steam trains


The air is furious 
devils raise dust 
in the fields


thrashed trees
leaves turned inside out
straining at the roots 
hold on by letting go


We walk in green lanes
hedged safe 
sheltered from the gale


until the gate-gaps
when all bets are off

Weaving lazy figures of 8  
circling 
the empty concourse
the skater boys
who are young men glide 
through evening light
Stripped to the waist 
sweat-sheened 
full of cocky pride 
they’re in the zone


Security guards arrive
drawn by the clack and rumble
of wheels on slabs 
the deep insistent boom
of drum and  bass 
exchanging glances  
they lean against the wall 
drop their jackets
loosen ties and smile


We are all entranced
There is magic at work here
and if not magic
something close
It is midsummer after all